


Coping Mechanisms

by ineffablynerdy



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Using Drugs to Cope, but it flows well, i can't have cake til i post this, my writing style is all over the place, now he's here, started from the bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:47:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22223551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffablynerdy/pseuds/ineffablynerdy
Summary: Crowley deals with his unrequited love by using various drugs over the years to dampen his emotions
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 94





	Coping Mechanisms

It's euphoric, his body twisting and turning in ways that humans could never consider. The bass thrums through the bottoms of his feet, his heartbeat crashing against his ribs in the same pattern. A group of women to his left throw their arms in the sex-and-sweat soaked air, all at once in tune and sporadic with the pulsing music. He had met the one in the middle just twenty minutes ago at the door for a rather unconvincing kiss, the very insisted-upon method of delivery Jessica relied on.

Sins of the flesh came too easily to Crowley. There was something about his human corporation that humans found, well,  _ irresistible _ , and he had plenty of time to turn it in his favor. Too many distracted men and enraptured women peppered history, tragedies and depressions following in their wake, a voice hissing in their ears  _ Yes, yes, do it! Show them power! _

She had slipped two of the tablets under his tongue, and another two into his hand. They had been swallowed in quick succession to the first, chased with whichever cocktail the bartender had decided to hand him.

Lights flashed around him, adding to the dancing shadows on the walls. His body moved and slithered, hands tugging at the hem of his shirt, knees shaky as voices echoed in his ears. Autotuned ones, voices shouting over the music, laughing, more pickup lines than he could count. Pupils blown wide, he scanned over the crowd, fascinated at the very idea that humanity had grown so much in just a few short years. He'd seen them, from children that marveled at fire, to the party-starved, free-loving people that surrounded him.

The glass is cool on his skin, despite the way it fogs with each breath. His glasses are skewed on his face, biting into his cheek, but he’s glad for it, giving him something else to focus on, rather than the raspy attempt at pillow talk against his shoulder or the awkward way his partner moves in the mirror. Crowley can tell, as he’s bent just so over the sink, the boy’s never done something like this, never been so blissed out that you don’t care when or where you are, you just need to  _ touch, feel, release. _

The boy (what was his name?) leaves Crowley little more than satisfied, and Crowley seeks Jessica out again. Three more this time, just enough to help him forget.

Knocking back another drink (how many had it been now? he'd lost count days ago. weeks?) Crowley swayed with the ebb and flow, considering just how much more Aziraphale would love humans himself, if he could only see the way they came together.

_ Oh _ .

Crowley's knuckles whitened around his glass, and it took more restraint than he was proud of to stop from shattering it against the counter. He felt his shoulders tense, his mouth run dry, the dozens of eyes suddenly all on him, watching as if they knew the darkest bit of his soul.

Crowley shoved his way from the club and staggered into the street. His empty flat called out to him, urging him to ride his high in darkness. Instead, he turned, and sauntered his way to Soho.

-*-*-*-

Aziraphale's nose scrunched in disapproval while he considered the mess of black fabric on the floor at his feet. Crowley dragged a hand over his eyes, smearing black against his skin, glasses nowhere to be seen, and gave a groan, as if the dim light inside had been worse than that dawn out. No, not the light. The judgement, that most holy, radiating down on him. He felt like a child being scolded and, frankly, he couldn't argue that he wasn't.

"You're high again, aren't you?" Aziraphale's voice was calm, but tense, and not the least bit surprised.

"Nah," Crowley drawled, not daring to move his hand. He tried to right his leg, somehow twisted under him when he'd fallen through the doorway, and only succeeded in a half-hearted slump. "Was before. 'm not now."

The angel gave a sigh, heavy with resignation as he pulled Crowley to his unsteady feet. His free hand came to rest against the side of his face, as if it would stop the room from spinning.

He hated when Aziraphale did that, and the bastard knew it.

"Let's get you sorted then. Isn’t much I can do since you've already run your course, is there, dear? I can make you comfortable at least."

Crowley's chest tightened, his throat burned, barely contained tears stung at the corners of his eyes. He always did this, always made Aziraphale clean up the pieces.

"Thank you, angel.."

-*-*-*-

He whooped, champagne sloshing from his glass as someone stumbled into him, not for the last time. There’s several other men here, dressed to the nines in pinstripe suits and wingtip shoes, all of them celebrating some corporate takeover or another. Crowley’s had his own fingers in the plan, known currently as a Mr Jonathan Emory, senior accountant at Emory and Partners, and was, of course, invited to the celebration. He gave a strong sniff, swallowed down half his drink, and passed the rolled banknote to Mr Johnson, yet another department head.

Crowley watched, his nerves twitching and buzzing under his skin, as Johnson licked at his teeth and gave a grin, reflected in the black glass resting on Crowley’s nose. Somewhere down the hall, he can hear the secretary, Ms Lubens, squealing in anticipation. His fingers itch, muscles tense and relax all in one second and he needs to leave, needs to  _ go, go, go- _

_ Where? _

Fingers much more deft than they should be grab one of the unopened packages and slides it into his pocket for later, when he can be comfortable and let his nerves light on fire all he wants, in the privacy of his flat, with nary a care in his world.

In fact, he realizes, skin sliding against the silk sheets under him, he only ever has one singular care, despite the many, many things crashing and burning around them. 

He isn’t sure when, exactly, he’d gotten home. Not that he particularly cared. Only that he was, and the packet had opened, and Crowley had snorted no less than half of it before slinking into his bed. And what a bed it was. He reveled in the softness, the way it moved under his weight and shifted with his movements.

Crowley realizes, as he pulls his hair free of its half-bun, his only care lies miles away from him, ignorant of the thoughts that plagued him on quiet nights like this. His mobile is in his hand instantly, dial tone all but echoing through the room, and he can’t find it within himself to feel guilt. What time is it?

_ Crowley? _ comes a voice, and blown golden eyes slide closed.

“Aziraphale.” his own is heavy, laden with anticipation and something he can’t quite name. The line remains quiet, and he licks his lips. “Angel, would you-” 

A non-existent pulse beats in his throat, his hands are sweaty, the room tilts. He can hear the plants mocking him from two rooms over. 

_ -ley? Would I, what?  _ There’s a warmth in Aziraphale’s tone, and it makes Crowley smile. He won’t know, he won’t know; he can’t fix Crowley with that knowing look of his and make this Not Okay.  _ Crowley, dear, really. _

“Read to me.” There’s a comment about the time. Crowley stopped caring about that. There’s something else about not wanting to switch books halfway through a paragraph. Crowley gives a huff, telling himself he imagined the breathlessness of Aziraphale’s exasperation. “Jus’ read.” he insists and finally finds his spine isn’t as rigid. “Anythin’ y’want.”

-*-*-*-

“I won’t have you coming round here like...like-”

“Like  _ what _ , angel?” comes the hiss and Aziraphale has to remember that Crowley isn’t in his right mind. “Spi’ it out! Like bloody  _ what _ ?” 

There’s blood smeared across his bottom lip, and no one is quite sure who it belongs to. Swelling under one of those blood-shot eyes has only gotten worse since he’d stumbled into the shop, and it’s looking rather angry itself, without the help of the demon’s literal bared claws. Aziraphale steels himself, fists in tight balls at his sides.

“Like...common  _ riff-raff _ .” it bites across the air, and Aziraphale winces, watching Crowley’s pupils retract incredibly quickly. He hadn’t realized just how much had been black. The angel takes a step forward, apology ready at his lips; some  _ I’m sorry my dear _ or  _ Crowley forgive me _ like he’s wont to do, and Crowley can’t stand for it.

“ _ Riff-raff _ .” he repeats, and the fire smoldering across the room crackles back to life. A booklight in the corner of the bookshop flares a bit more imperceptibly, the street lamps flicker off and on in London fog. “Is  _ that _ all?” 

-*-*-*-

Crowley is adept with sins of the flesh. She knows to arch her back, to lick her lips, to drag her eyes in such a way that whichever human falls under her touch tries to thank God for their luck. They couldn’t be further from the truth, of course. But Crowley let them pray, let them bless and praise and raise their voices to Her, or Him, or however they wanted to testify, if only to drown the buzzing in her own head. 

Nothing exists under the surface; it’s shallow and purposeful, used to sway any number of things to your will. Tonight, it’s heavy, and suffocating, and not at all what she needed.

The Chairman snores deeply beside her, entirely retired from the world around him. In his drunkenness, it had taken him significantly longer for him to remember his home address than it had to bring himself to completion and entirely disregard Crowley in her barest. There was some sort of cosmic joke happening. The buzzing hadn’t paused in the slightest.

Crowley steps from the bed, lanky alabaster in contrast to the darkness around her, and fumbles for the man’s wallet. It’s fat with cash and little plastic, a well-known tactic of the older generation’s mating rituals. She pulls the bills from the leather, snaps her fingers, doesn’t bother to mute the way her heels click against the floors.

She’s much too sober.

-*-*-*-

Soho at 3 in the morning is serene and inviting, and not a little of it is by angelic hand. It’s all the more disturbing when Crowley sways through the streets, heels echoing with each step in the silence of the twilight. They’re unsteady steps, hollow one moment and sharp another, and little semblance of a route. Crowley staggers to a halt, just in front of A.Z.Fell & Co., and for once, doesn’t choke back his voice.

“ **_Aziraphale, with your eyes of blue!_ ** ” he sings, swishing around the lamp post like some sort of court jester. Flat lights turn on above his head, but Crowley goes on. “ **_You’re fair of heart, and lacking sin; Aziraphale, my love, do let me in!_ ** ”

It’s difficult to mistake the sound of the bell over the bookshop’s door. Crowley twists his body, grinning wide as ever as the angel ushers him inside. It’s hard to miss the disappointment on his soft features, too, but Crowley wills himself. There’s a fire inside, be it the bookshop, comforting and cozy, or his chest, searing and distracting, which the demon stopped questioning decades ago. He follows Aziraphale inside as if it’s the easiest thing in the universe.

To him, it is.

“Hello, Aziraphale!” Crowley’s chipper, squirming inside his own corporation and unable to sit still. It isn’t terribly out of the ordinary, and still Aziraphale can spot the tell-tale signs. “Lovely evening for a stroll, y’see. Couldn’t help m’self. London air, all that!” This, of course, was just silly. Aziraphale gave a non-commital sound, absently chewing at the corner of his lip, as his hands were busy with the tea.

Nights like this, one didn’t miracle tea. Nights like this, one enjoyed the optimistic ramblings of a demon and hoped the serpent put himself to rights before dawn. A routine Aziraphale knew well, had gotten used to, and still worried over. How long had it been now? Crowley’s  _ habit _ ...

“Can hear you thinkin’,” Crowley calls from the comfort of his couch, lounged by the hearth and entirely too relaxed. His fingertips buzz, his tongue loses sense of itself, his head sways back and forth with an orchestra only he can hear. “Promise I won’t be a git, right, angel?” And Aziraphale wants to believe him.

So Aziraphale does.

Crowley mumbles through a stanza or two, the likes Aziraphale can’t quite decipher, but they seem to bring a calm to Crowley. His eyes are heavily lidded, glasses long removed, no doubt joining his coat beside the front door, and his hair disarrayed, as if someone couldn’t keep their hands from it. There’s tea, and there’s biscuits, in case Crowley feels poorly, and surprisingly, no animated rants from his wily adversary.

It’s quiet, and peaceful, and Aziraphale couldn’t be more anxious.

One could never anticipate where the high would take Crowley at any given moment. Aziraphale remembered the fights, the awful words between them, the  _ hurt _ in Crowley’s voice. Remembered them as fresh wounds, jabs that hadn’t quite healed, as pink scars and deep bruises.

_ “Why are you doing this, Crowley? Why do you come to me like this?” _

And still, he’d come back.

_  
_ _ “If you haven’t figured it out by now, angel, then you never will.” _

And Aziraphale would watch over him.

_ “Let me have this, Aziraphale. I can’t have much, but allow me this.” _

Aziraphale glances over the top of his book, unsurprised to see Crowley’s chest shift with deep, steady breaths. Sleep came quickly to Crowley in the bookshop, though never so suddenly than the flat above, and for it, the angel was grateful. Crowley would sleep for a few days, and be tip-top and back to his old fomenting in no time.

He no longer questioned why Crowley sought out the bookshop.

-*-*-*-

It seemed he spent less and less time with a clear head. Aziraphale has stopped calling altogether, knowing one way or another, Crowley would find his way to his doorstep by night's end and be gone again once his human body had expelled whichever toxin he had chosen this time. There were hardly any more nights, just the two of them, drinking bottle after bottle of wine in good company with clever topics of discussion.

Aziraphale missed it.

More importantly, he missed Crowley. Not this tripped out, drugged up Crowley he’d come to know in the few decades past.

He missed  _ his _ Crowley.

-*-*-*-

He was floating, flying, any manner of Not Being on the Ground that he could think of. He couldn’t think of a lot. 

Nights like this, when he had lost any semblance of time and couldn’t even remember leaving his flat, there was always one steady thought in his mind.

Well, two.

Firstly, just how many parties could he make an appearance at and still leave relatively unscathed, high renewed and stumbling disguised as a practiced swagger? There had been tablets and powders and liquors aplenty, more than enough to satisfy his night. Crowley could have easily found a lounge, a chair, a corner, a lap, and spend his endless hours in a stupor, days melding together until he woke up next week and did it all again.

The same charade, every day.

But all of it fell short to a mantra he felt so deeply in his soul, he wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t created just to repeat it. It was the pace of his human heart beat, the prayer he still heard clearly through the thundering silence since the Fall.

_ Aziraphale. Aziraphale. _

Regardless of where in London he found himself, he always knew the way back, almost like it was the one thing truly ingrained in his mind. Baser instincts became automatic, the  _ tck, tck, tck _ of his shoes the one constant to the only hymn he ever sang on high.

A. Z. Fell & Co loomed above him, lights casting a yellow glow into the street. Crowley blinked, willing his vision to clear as he blessed softly under his breath.

The angel wasn’t exactly happy to see him, though he masked it well. Crowley felt the wave of disapproval cresting from him like a cloud of miasma in the deepest, dankest storage rooms in Hell. It’s a stink he’s come to expect, though, and it hardly deterred the grin on his lips, the heat in his cheeks, the love in his heart.

“Not going to serenade the entirety of London tonight, dear?” his voice was soft, as it ever was, and comforted the sobering serpent more than weeks of sleep ever could.

“Nah. ‘s only on special occasions, angel.” Crowley hoists himself from the front stoop and for once doesn’t entirely lean against Aziraphale. But he wants to. He shakes his head, clearing more of the fog, and finds his natural compulsion hasn’t changed. Before Hell, before Heaven, before  _ Her… _

There was him.

It’s easy to put Crowley to bed tonight. He’s agreeable, if pliant, and before the lights are dimmed, Aziraphale finds himself laughing as he once did. Crowley’s beaming, as much as his sallow complexion can. His tired eyes are a rather pale, more blood-shot yellow than their curious amber, and the pulse in his throat thrums as if to threaten, or break, or crack.

Aziraphale reads to him again, in the bed they've come to share. A couch is only so comfortable for so many decades, and Crowley had all but jumped at the chance to lay beside his eternal wall of warmth. Chaucer sways light in the air, Crowley's eyes grow heavy, and he finally feels like everything could be okay. 

It’s been so long since everything had been okay…

-*-*-*-

It's taken a lot of work, and it's taken a lot of time, as habits are hard to break, and idle hands are the Devil's playthings. A familiar itch of boredom creeps in and it takes everything he has not to fall into another addiction, another distraction, another muddled puddle of emotion that he tries so desperately to wade through, without so much as a hint at stable ground.

Years of stumbling, and crashing, and turmoil, and Crowley’s finally found the barest bit of purchase to hold his trembling steps. It’s shaky, and sometimes not there at all, but his faith has grown, not without a little help, so he keeps moving forward, toward a light that once banished all he was.

Tchaikovsky’s “ _ Was It All Worth It _ ” is playing through the cottage, a somewhat surreal juxtaposition to the warm, rolling fields just beyond the garden. Crowley taps at the screen of the mobile in his hand, socked toes wiggling off the arm of the couch. He’s become pliant, comfortable, and, as Aziraphale cards his hand through his shaggy hair, he can’t bring himself to complain. There’s a calm that’s settled deep inside him, one he hadn’t felt in so long.

Aziraphale has posed some sort of question, and Crowley hums, toes curling as he stretches after...well, he’s lost track of how many hours it’s been now.

“Since we’ve come to the cottage, I mean.” Aziraphale clarifies, and there’s no disappointment in his voice. “You would sneak away, come home after all those affairs in Camden. You don’t any more.” It isn’t a question. There’s no underlying curiosity or accusation. Crowley cranes his head back, watching the angel with clear, golden eyes.

“It’s not the same, love,” he explains and Aziraphale grins, leaning just slightly to press a kiss to Crowley’s forehead. He loves that grin, that beacon of light he followed through so many trials.

“You’re the only high I need.”


End file.
